Quotable
by Anti-Kryptonite
Summary: A phrase, a question, a statement, a throwaway reply - these can all betray our innermost thoughts. A selection of single lines of dialogue from each episode, seconds in time that show what's beneath the surface.
1. Pilot: Jonathan Kent

A/N: These began (a LONG time ago) as a sort of writing exercise to get me thinking through specific characters' points of view and were fun to do - just found them and thought I'd share in the hopes it'll motivate me to get writing and posting again! Hope you enjoy and please tell me what you think! In this first story, I delve into one of my favorite characters - Jonathan Kent!

Disclaimer: Dialogue from each of these are taken from specific episodes and were written by others; no copyright infringement is intended.

-S-

You stand there, straight and tall, not quite sure where or how to put your arms in the outlandish costume Martha came up with (and really, I should have known that whatever her 'artistic' mind produced would be this strange and colorful), and I can tell that you're scared and nervous and unsure. But still you stand there and ask me what I think.

You're always a little scared, always just that bit off-balance, a step behind everyone else. I know that's partly my fault, but you were _mine_, Clark, _ours_, and I couldn't risk that, couldn't ever let someone come and take you away from us. So, yeah, maybe I overdid the dissection bit and maybe I told you too many times to be careful about how much you let show in front of others, but I hope you know that I've always been proud of you.

Because you're standing here in our living room in a farm in Kansas (and much as I love it, I know that it's not exactly what most people would call desirable), and you're dressed in an outfit that very obviously makes you uncomfortable, and you're ready and waiting to put your life on the line.

And all to help others.

I know I haven't been the best dad there ever was. I know that I've made mistakes. But in this moment, looking there at you, I feel so incredibly proud. Of you—and a little bit of me. Because for all the mistakes I made, I did something right. Your sense of right and wrong, your strong integrity, they were yours, but I didn't stamp them out, didn't teach you to ignore them, and maybe I even helped you develop them a bit. And you're trying to help and you're selfless and good, and I know all parents think their own children are the best, but I'm pretty sure that I have more reason than most.

You were put in a tiny spaceship and shot away—from another planet or just from somewhere horrible and _wrong_ on this planet. And we found you. Out of all the nights and all the roads, Martha and I were on the right road at the right time to find a tiny little infant who smiled up at us and curled his fingers around my thumb. Sometimes the chance of it all boggles my mind and leaves me standing motionless, trying to wrap my brain around it.

And other times, like now, I just feel my heart swell up with pure gratitude. Because you're my son—our son—and you're standing in a costume that will outshine those fancy lit stores in Metropolis, and you're looking at me all full of fear and hope and nervousness, and I know one way or another you're going to change the world.

So I smile and I even get out a laugh despite the terror squeezing my insides into shapes much like your mother's clay when she's done molding it, and I say, "That's my boy."

And you are.

-S-


	2. Strange Visitor: Burton Newcomb

A/N: Hopefully, everyone will remember the suspicious old General who helped Lois and Clark find Bureau 13 and Trask!

-S-

"Sure," the young reporter says, like it's the most natural thing in the world, and I can't help but frown and pause and look over at him. Not just for interrupting me (youngsters these days just don't know that they're supposed to listen to their elders), but also because the response seems a little strange.

"Sure," he says, and I wonder what kind of life he's led to make him look as if he really does know what it's like to have a secret stashed away inside, a secret so big it makes it impossible to talk to anyone or meet anyone new or even walk down the street without looking at everyone and everything suspiciously, warily, as apprehensively as if you are in enemy territory.

This young reporter, this Clark Kent, has an open face, honest and unassuming, but I've known soldiers younger than him who looked just as guileless yet had seen war, so maybe it shouldn't have come as such a surprise. But it does. Because he radiates honesty in a way few others can, and even when his partner looks at him in surprised derision, he doesn't close down, just sputters out some line about sources.

I know what it's like to have a secret festering inside you. I know what it's like to hide it from everyone close to you—the lack of a wife or kids or any friends in this house can attest to that. I even know what it's like to hide a secret behind a façade. So maybe this Kent actually does have a secret.

If so, he's managed to handle it far better than I could. Or maybe it's just because he's young. Life hasn't had a chance to sink its claws into him yet, hasn't managed to thoroughly disillusion him and weight him down with all its burdens. As I well know, the world isn't kind to those who hold secrets, and lies get crueler and harsher the longer they drip out of your mouth. Maybe one day, if he comes back (though considering the secret I'm keeping, I certainly hope he doesn't have cause to want to talk to me again), I'll look at him and see the lines etched into his face, the scars drawn by deception and fear.

I hope not. The secrets I keep aren't worth the lies I told to keep them, that's for sure. And giving these determined reporters a bit of help, even backhanded help I can't (or won't) admit to, isn't going to make my own burdened past any lighter. But maybe, just maybe, it'll help this young man realize that secrets always come to light sooner or later, and it's never in the way you want.

Or maybe he already knows it. Maybe that's why he can look so hopeful and unaffected by his secret—knowing that one day the secrecy will end might be what allows him to keep that hope shining there behind his thick glasses.

I don't know. And truthfully, I don't _want_ to know.

I've had enough of secrets—a lifetime and more of secrets I couldn't stomach even when I thought I was doing the right thing. So I'll give them my secret and I'll let them walk away and I'll hope I never have to see them again.

And maybe, just maybe, I'll learn how to live my life _without_ secrets.

-S-


	3. Never-Ending Battle: Lex Luthor

A/N: Whew, Lex Luthor is hard to write for - so evil that it's as intriguing as it is intimidating!

-S-

A weakness. It may not seem like much, my good man (or whatever you are), not after I've successfully discovered just how vast and wide-ranging your abilities are, but it is there nonetheless. A chink in red and blue armor that otherwise might be just a bit too invulnerable for my own good. A failing, in actuality, and now you're no longer intimidating—now you're just a challenge. A good one, one worthy of a man of my talents and intellect, one that will break the boredom inherent in a life of endless minutiae and the mundane details needed to run an empire, but a challenge just the same.

And you're new around here, so you might not know, but I never turn down a challenge. And I never lose either. Oh, you might think you've caused me some sort of set-back by ignoring my unspoken ultimatum and coming back to blind the world with your flashy powers, but it is always brain that beats brawn, my dear friend, mind over matter, which means I'm not afraid.

No, truthfully, this is a welcome diversion. An interesting test I can use to stretch myself. It was awfully helpful of you to confront me yourself and let me know just whose side you're on (I might have wasted days or weeks trying to convert you to my employ otherwise), but it was also a gauntlet thrown down at my feet, and now I can use you in my schemes whether you work for me or not.

"Superman has morals," I tell my manservant, and that is that.

I've already won, you see. Once you accept morals, you accept limits, boundaries that you refuse to cross and thus, _cannot_ cross. You wall yourself in behind limits that make you less than you can be, and when there are lines you will not step over, there are victories you will never obtain.

So you may be able to fly from one end of this city to the others, and you may be able to survive the point-blank explosion of a bomb, and you may even be all but invulnerable, but as long as you will come to the pleading call of a victim, as long as you treasure life over power…well, this is a challenge, but it won't be a contest.

Total power is what you have, my friend, yet you allow yourself to be inhibited, put under the control of what others decree right or wrong. That's your second mistake (your first, naturally, was setting yourself against me), but I'm reasonably certain it won't be your last.

Because _I'm _not inhibited or controlled, and there isn't a single line that I won't cross should the occasion warrant it. Ruthless—a good word—and those who are willing to put it all on the line are the ones who eventually walk away with the spoils.

So enjoy your moment of fame. Enjoy the newspaper articles and the keys to the city and the applause of Lois Lane. In the end, it won't matter, nothing more than a spark in a pan. In the end, you _will_ fall.

And I will be there, savoring my triumph.

That is, after all, what it means to be Lex Luthor.

-S-


End file.
